


Their Daughter

by Rionam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Parentlock, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rionam/pseuds/Rionam
Summary: One late night in 221B John discovers Sherlock telling Rosie a story; the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, a crazy detective and a fantastic doctor who went around saving lives and having fun.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of s4 fix it, where who John and Sherlock are, it does matter.

John woke with a start. Orange streetlight was tinting the room through a crack in the curtains and the faint hum of nightlife of central London was undercutting the silence, but neither of these things had woken him up. His heart rate was normal and he felt none of the fear that lingered after a nightmare. In fact, John couldn’t quite figure out why he had woken up at all. All he remembered was the brief sensation of being watched, but he’d been sleeping on his own for a while now.

Well, not completely on his own. He rolled over in the too-big bed and craned his neck to look into Rosie’s cot. Where he expected to see his daughter sleeping peacefully was just an empty space, even her favourite toy bear was missing. 

John was wide awake now. He jumped up from his bed and instantly into high alert mode. His mind raced with thoughts of henchmen and kidnappers creeping around 221B at night, taking his daughter as some kind of terrible ransom for something Sherlock had done. Because when things like this happened it was always Sherlock’s fault, somehow.

As he reached for his phone to call the police, however, he was interrupted by murmuring downstairs. It sounded like Sherlock’s voice, but the sounds were much too light and carefree to be coming from the consulting detective. The voice was practically cooing at what he assumed was his daughter. Had some deranged Sherlock-sounding kidnapper broken into his flat in the night just to play with his daughter?

John’s feet started moving before his brain fully processed what was happening; was he about to walk in on a kidnapper or Sherlock Holmes playing with his daughter? And which one was a more terrifying prospect?

Of course Sherlock had settled into life with John back in 221B with a baby in tow as well as you’d expect. He’d begun by offering to do anything and everything he could, a likely symptom of his guilt over everything that had happened and his happiness to have life back where he wanted it. But when John had taken him up on his offer of doing Rosie’s dirty nappy, he’d promptly decided he wanted nothing to do with her existence. 

With John back Sherlock had had to move his larger experiments out of the upstairs bedroom to the kitchen, and then into his bedroom when John reminded him corrosive acid and babies don’t mix well. He did this with great petulance and now spent long hours locked in his room, with only the clinking sounds of test tubes to remind John he was in there. He’d also decided that children’s television impeded his thought process (John, however, thought it might have something to do with a certain deceased villain’s love of fairy tales) therefore would leave the room in a huff if John even talked about putting on Cbeebies. 

He regarded Rosie as if she was a puzzle yet to be solved. John often found him feeding her spoonfuls of different branded baby foods and taking note of her food and digestion afterwards ‘for a case’. He also hid specific toys and stuffed animals from her to see which was she was most attached to. John wasn’t quite sure if this could be seen as a worrying habit or an affectionate one, as he could still never figure out Sherlock’s true motivations for things.

“He’s more emotional, isn’t he?” Mrs Hudson had said. Well, John was yet to see evidence of this. Unless of course, he had, and Sherlock just expressed emotions in his own way. Which was pretty likely, actually.

As he crept down the stairs at 3 o’clock in the morning, he was reminded of Sherlock’s emotions. As as he reached the living room door, he could hear evidence of Sherlock expressing emotions right in front of him.

The consulting detective was sat with Rosie in his lap, looking at her intently as he told her a story. He was telling her the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, a crazy detective and a fantastic doctor who went around saving lives and having fun. The John Watson he described was handsome and courageous, getting the ridiculous Sherlock Holmes out of all manner of life-threatening situations. 

John heard Sherlock tell his daughter that he didn’t know where he would be without her father. That John had saved him so many times and still did everyday, even if he didn’t know it. 

He found himself almost welling up at the kind and tender way Sherlock was speaking about him, he’d never heard his best friend speak so sweetly and about him for that! As quietly as he could, he pushed open the door and padded into the living room, trying to not let his face heat up from the memory of Sherlock’s words.

At the noise Sherlock’s head shot up and his face paled, still rocking Rosie in his arms as he stared at John.

John almost laughed, “No, no. Don’t let me stop you,” He told Sherlock, making his way into the kitchen and clicking on the kettle. 

“You were asleep and I could hear Rosie stirring. I thought it better for me to take her than wake you up in the middle of your REM cycle,” Sherlock informed him, his voice as stoic and emotionless as ever. A strong contrast to the voice he’d been using to tell his story. 

“That’s fine, I’m not complaining.”

John got out two mugs without asking and poured two cups of tea, making sure Sherlock’s was extra sugary. He debated with himself as he did, if he should embarrass Sherlock further by bringing up what he’d said. Of course, he decided, Sherlock embarrassed John every other day at crime scenes when he naturally got things wrong.

He returned to the living room, a wry smile tugging at his lips, “I didn’t know you know any children’s stories.”

Sherlock’s face was grim as he placed Rosie into her highchair and accepted the tea without thanks, as usual. 

“In fact, those characters, they seemed quite familiar actually. Inspired by anyone were they?” He pushed, enjoying the way Sherlock Holmes was actually lost for words for once. When the detective didn’t respond again, John continued, “If I were you I would call that John Watson fellow handsome more often, he doesn’t hear it nearly enough…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh be quiet John. I just thought your daughter might like to hear of the adventures we went on before she came along.”

“What are you talking about?” John almost laughed. He recalled the case of a missing lollypop lady they’d solved just two days earlier, whilst Rosie was with Mrs Hudson. The poor, frightened, old lady was found trapped in a school bike shed, held captive by a hit and run driver who wanted the woman to falsely testify for him in court. 

“Well we can hardly go getting ourselves into life threatening situations now we, now you have Rosie to be looking after,” Sherlock shot back, sounding put out at the idea they could no longer get themselves killed without repercussions. He slurped his tea loudly in his annoyance.

John frowned. The way Sherlock was talking sounded as though something had changed in the way their cases worked. As far as he knew they had been getting cases from clients and Lestrade the same way they always had, sure there had been far fewer than there had been in their hey-day. But John just thought their reputation had sunk after the mess with Sherlock’s fake death and his marriage to a former assassin. 

He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who looked as though he’d been caught out. The taller man had focussed his attention back onto Rosie, who was falling asleep with her head tipped to the side in the highchair. 

“What do you mean,” John spoke slowly, trying not to sound as stupid as he felt, “We’ve still been working cases, haven’t we?”

He had an awful feeling that Sherlock had been somehow making up cases to placate him, whilst secretly paying his homeless network to fill in for clients or something. Who knows, maybe Molly Hooper was in on it again.

Sherlock had his “I’m guilty but I don’t care” face on as he chose his words carefully, “Well yes. But only the simple, non-dangerous cases.”

John was staring at him as if he’d grown another head. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock Holmes, Mr shoot-the-wall-if-I-don’t-have-a-case would be turning down dangerous cases, for him. Why would he even do that?

“I’ve only been bringing in clients and saying yes to cases that I already know couldn’t possibly lead to fatalities,” Sherlock explained nonchalantly, the words rolling off of his tongue easily. As if these were the words he rehearsed in case this day came, “Also none which would lead to you using that unregistered gun. It would be terrible for a child as young as Rosie to lose you to death or prison, plus if I died you would likely go into a state of mourning much like before, which would also have a negative impact on Rosie’s life.”

This was it. John knew Sherlock had a heart, he’d shown it so many times and in so many ways, but this was the kindest thing he’d ever seen him do. Sherlock, who’s life revolved around the cases, was giving up the exciting and dangerous cases so that his daughter would never have to without her father. As John watched Sherlock stare intently as his sleeping daughter, he had a thought; both her fathers. 

Of course Sherlock was mad, impossible. He showed his love in unpredictable, ridiculous ways. But he was as much of a father to Rosie than he was. Sure he might feed her five different types of baby food just to see the scientific result, or steal her toys to gage her reaction. But he still read to her, played with her, fed her. John was so lucky to have both of these people in his life; in his family.

He moved almost on autopilot, in turn kissing Rosie’s head and then pressing his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. He sat on the sofa next to Sherlock, grinning at the lost expression on the other man’s face. 

“What was that for?” Sherlock asked, his words rushing out of his mouth in a messy heap, “I thought you would be angry with me?”

John shook his head with a smile, “Thank you. And losing you would mean much more to Rosie than just how much I would mourn you. It wouldn’t be good for her to lose any more parents.”

“I’m her godfather,” Sherlock replied instantly, stating the fact quickly and easily. 

“Yes. And just as much of a father to her as I am,” John responded in much the same way.

John enjoyed the way Sherlock was gaping at him, looking completely bawled over by John’s confession. His eyes were narrowed in way as if he was trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle.

“Rosie is your daughter, and,” Sherlock stumbled over his words for a moment, “And Mary’s.”

John ignored a pang of guilt in his chest. If Mary was here, he was sure she’d have wanted him to move on. And she always liked Sherlock, anyway.

“I know that. But with Mary… gone, you’ve been a father to Rosie this whole time,” John explained, his voice low and quiet, “And I can’t thank you enough.”

Sherlock tried a smile, “If we both go around calling ourselves Rosie’s father, people will certainly talk.”

“Let them.”

John was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting to one another. He could see the slight sheen of tears gathering in Sherlock’s pale eyes, and he knew this meant as much to the other man as it did to him. Finally, he closed the gap between their bodies and pulled Sherlock in for a tight hug, enjoying the way the taller man’s arms instantly enveloped his whole body and tightening his own grip around Sherlock’s neck. 

He could feel how much Sherlock’s heart was racing alongside his own and it only felt natural to tip his head up and press his lips to Sherlock’s. The other man went entirely still for a moment, obviously processing this new influx of data, before his eyes fluttered closed and he responded with vigour. 

John considered how unexpected this was idly between kisses, remembering vaguely how Mary had said that who they were didn’t matter. Of course it mattered. He’d been a bisexual man all of his life and in love with Sherlock for the part of his life that had mattered. Sure things had gotten in the way and so much had changed, Rosie was living proof of that, but John truly wouldn’t have it any other way. It had brought him here, after all, kissing Sherlock as if it was what they’d been put on this earth to do.

A sudden crying out broke the men apart, sheepishly grinning at each other with red faced. They were quickly distracted by their daughter, however, who was banging her little fists on her highchair in order to get their attention. 

“I think our daughter wants some attention,” John said breathlessly, feeling a little lightheaded. He grinned, “I’ll put her to bed and then we’ll….”

“Talk,” Sherlock responded cheekily, looking as though he’d just been knocked over the head with something. 

“Talk,” John grinned. And raced up the stairs to put their daughter to bed as quickly as possible, so they could have their ‘talk’.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you all enjoyed this! Please let me know your thoughts :)


End file.
